


Family Affairs

by linndechir



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, Breeding, Creampie, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Naomi and Evan didn't have children before he passed. As far as Peter is concerned, that's an unacceptable waste of a woman who's so suitable to the Lukas family's legacy.
Relationships: Naomi Herne/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Family Affairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).



“I used to think it’s such a pity that you and Evan didn’t have children before he passed.”

Peter’s tone was conversational, light-hearted, the way it always was. Naomi didn’t think she’d ever heard the man sound serious or sad or upset or like he felt any emotion at all beyond bland, superficial amusement. She’d found it odd when she’d first met him (consciously, that was, since she couldn’t remember whether she’d seen him at the funeral), not such a long time after Evan’s death and the time she’d spoken to that arsehole at the Magnus Institute. Back then she’d assumed that Peter was a little socially awkward, and anyway people dealt with their grief in different ways. He’d been kind enough, and it had been nice to have one member of Evan’s family call sometimes and acknowledge that she’d lost him just as much as they had. Not that Peter seemed particularly broken up about his nephew’s death, now or then, but again, she’d just thought that he wasn’t the kind of man to wear his feelings on his sleeve and cry in front of strangers.

Naomi shuddered and tried to cover herself, though even as she did she knew all it would get her was Peter’s large hands grabbing her wrists and holding her down. On her bed. The bed she’d once shared with Evan, the bed that his uncle had now thrown her down on before he’d unceremoniously pulled her clothes off. Peter was a big man, even taller and broader than Evan had been, but Naomi hadn’t realised just how huge he really was until he’d manhandled her as easily as one would a small child.

He’d said that same sentence to her the first time they’d spoken. How sad it was that she and Evan had had no children. It was the only time she’d heard a hint of regret in his voice. Naomi hadn’t replied that she’d never been sure she even wanted children and Evan hadn’t seemed in a hurry either, and she was quite glad about it now. She didn’t think she would have had the strength to raise a kid or two on her own, unable to look at them without remembering how much she missed their father.

She didn’t answer. She’d realised by now that Peter didn’t really want answers. He wasn’t interested in talking to her as much as in hearing his own voice as he went on.

“But it’s probably better this way. As unsuited as poor Evan was to the family, he might just have passed that on to his kids,” he said. He was kneeling between her legs, still fully dressed, and somehow the reality of what was happening was only slowly sinking in. It was too absurd. This couldn’t be. Peter was _weird_ , but he’d never struck her as cruel or mean, or even as obsessively religious as Evan had made his family sound. And he’d never seemed like he was even interested in Naomi that way – he hadn’t stared at her or made inappropriate comments or tried to touch her in that pretend-harmless way of older men who thought they could get away with it. He’d never even tried to hug her or patted her back when she’d started crying. Come to think of it, Naomi didn’t think he’d touched her at all before tonight, not even accidentally.

He did look interested now, his icy blue eyes roaming over her spread out, bared body. It made Naomi blush in a way she didn’t think she had in a very long time, and despite herself she shuddered when he ran his thick, but surprisingly soft fingers over the inside of her thigh.

“If you’re going to do this to me, do you really have to talk about _children_? That’s just –“ 

_Wrong_ , she wanted to say, but then so was this entire situation. Her dead fiancé’s uncle, who’d come by for a cup of tea and a chat, was about to rape her. It couldn’t be happening. Maybe her dreams, her nightmares, had taken a new turn, but even as she tried to tell herself that, she knew that wasn’t true. This was nothing like the constant horror of being watched she felt every time she closed her eyes. On the contrary, she felt like she was floating in nothing at all, cut off from the entire world. Like there was just her, and this bed, and Peter smiling down at her.

“But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?” He was caressing her thigh with a strange tenderness that didn’t fit the situation, and then his hand slid further up. Again she tried to close her legs, but his knees kept them spread, the rough fabric of his trousers scratching over her skin. His hand felt impossibly large when he pressed his fingers against her cunt, a warm, lingering touch before he started rubbing her ever so slowly, teasingly. A shiver of reluctant pleasure went through her, and the horror of that finally broke through her paralysed, disbelieving fear, and she sat up and tried to fight back, hammering her fists against his broad chest.

She might as well have tried to move a house with her bare hands. He caught her wrists and pushed her down again with insulting ease, and after a brief sigh he loosened his belt, tied it around her wrists and then fastened it to the bed post. He looked put upon, as if it was a tedious inconvenience for him that she wasn’t simply lying there like a, a lifeless doll.

“There, that’s better. I didn’t think you were going to be so difficult about it,” he said and his fingers went back to what they’d been doing before. Naomi bit her lip this time – she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of enjoying this, even as she felt herself getting wet, easing the way as his fingers rubbed over her. She’d been lonely, that was all. She hadn’t been with anyone since Evan – couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone else after him – and if she squinted, in some ways Peter reminded her of him, despite the age difference. The same blue eyes, the same amused crinkle around them, the same shape of their mouths when they smiled, even if Peter’s smile was a strange, vacant thing where Evan’s had always been so alive and vibrant. Tears stung in her eyes as she remembered it.

“As I was saying, as much of a disappointment as Evan was to the family, he did do an excellent job picking you. I suppose some of it is in our blood after so many generations.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped and pulled on the belt, but it didn’t give way. She tried not to think about the fact that he’d tied her up so casually, and apparently quite thoroughly, too. She tried not to wonder if he did this more often – if that would make her feel better or worse. “And a disappointment? Evan was better than the whole lot of your weird, creepy family.”

“He was a sweet boy,” Peter said, and there actually was some fondness in his voice this time. He looked like he was savouring a fond memory, but at the same time he pushed his fingers into Naomi, making her whimper in discomfort and begrudging arousal. “But so very bad at being alone. So needy and clingy. Now you … you’ll do perfectly.”

Something about those words felt far more ominous than it should, like he wasn’t simply talking about this – about his fingers inside her, about the roughness of his beard when he leant down to kiss her breasts, then her stomach. Evan had been clean-shaven and Naomi had always preferred that, but even that memory didn’t help matters. She hated Peter so much in that moment she could have gauged his eyes out with her thumbs if her hands had still been free, but as it was, all she could do was lie there and let him finger her until she twitched and shivered.

She gasped when Peter stopped only long enough to pull his cock out – he hadn’t bothered to undress otherwise, hadn’t even taken off that thick, navy blue wool jumper. A strange part of her brain wondered how he wasn’t sweating in that thing, but then it did seem strangely cool in her bedroom. Had she forgotten to turn on the heating when she’d come home after work?

Peter was _big_. Evan hadn’t been a small man, in any way, but next to Peter he certainly would have looked small. She didn’t think Peter could possibly fit inside her, but it was very obvious that he didn’t give a damn about that. And yet she would have preferred actual pain over the fact that he had no trouble at all pushing inside her, over the fact that she was so wet she took his large cock far more easily than she would have thought possible. It was uncomfortable, filling her up unbearably, but it wasn’t painful enough to chase away that hated arousal.

Peter smiled a little when he was fully inside her, and then patted her cheek with such condescension she could have slapped him.

“He really did have good taste,” Peter said, and the only sign that he was getting anything out of this was that his breath was coming faster than before.

“Stop talking about him!” Naomi snapped. Her voice sounded so high and helpless she barely recognised it. Peter just laughed at her and thrust into her with a lazy roll of his hips.

“Why, it seems to get you in the right mood.” He chuckled again, like that was somehow funny. Didn’t he care at all that he’d lost his nephew? Even if they hadn’t been close, even if he was angry that Evan had turned his back on his family, wouldn’t any normal man feel at least a minimum of grief? She wanted to ask, to scream at him that Evan had deserved better, but she didn’t want to hear her own breathless voice.

After that Peter settled on a slow, languid pace, making her body rock and shake with every deep thrust – but he blissfully stopped talking, and Naomi didn’t want to provoke him into saying anything else. He didn’t look at her now – his eyes were open, but fixed on the pillow beside her head. One of his hands was playing with her breast, but more the way one would absent-mindedly pet a soft object than caress a lover. As strange as it was, with his cock splitting her open again and again, pushing her towards an orgasm she dreaded more than anything else in her life – she felt almost ignored by him. Like her being there was merely coincidental. It made her cheeks burn with shame and rage – how humiliating was it that the man who violated her didn’t even look at her while doing it, as if she were some thing rather than a person whose already miserable life he was ruining. Why her, then? As horrible as that thought was, and as little as she’d want to wish this on any other woman, but if he didn’t care who, then why her? Was it some kind of belated revenge against Evan for not being what his family had wanted him to be?

She’d tried to keep herself from crying, but now tears were flowing freely over her cheeks, even as she kept biting her lip to stay quiet. She hated him so very much, even more than she’d hated Evan’s cold, callous father at the funeral, even more than she hated that arrogant archivist who now haunted her dreams. She hated the world for taking Evan away from her, and she hated herself for feeling even the faintest bit of pleasure with anyone else. Especially with this scum.

After a while Peter’s hand let go of her breast and moved up to her throat instead, his hand so large it felt like he could simply rip her head off. But all he did was curl his fingers around her throat and squeeze – for a moment Naomi wondered if he was going to kill her, and she was shocked by how little that thought frightened her. At least then it would all be over – her pain and her grief and her shame. But he let up too soon, and then he squeezed again, and again, and all it did was make Naomi twitch around his cock and whimper and wonder how the hell this awkward, strange, distant man knew how to play her body like a fiddle.

She was so very close and desperately trying to hold back when Peter’s hips stuttered, a few last hard thrusts before he came inside her, and then – then he was gone, pulling out so fast it hurt, and Naomi let out a startled cry.

“Don’t –” She bit her tongue just in time before she could finish that sentence. _Don’t stop_ , a horrible part of her had wanted to say, and Peter laughed at her like he knew it as well as her. Her face burnt, and still he didn’t let her close his legs. Once again he rubbed his fingers over her wet cunt, and as Naomi glanced down, she saw the sticky whiteness of his come on his fingers before he shoved them back inside her. 

It hit her then – with that same sudden, horrible inevitability as when Evan had died. What Peter wanted. What he’d meant to do. All his talk about Evan and her not having children and about how _suitable_ she was, and she had stopped taking the pill after Evan’s death. Why bother, when she couldn’t imagine ever sleeping with anyone else again?

“No,” she whispered, and this last straw at least seemed to free her of her body’s awful reactions. She felt numb all over and icy-cold.

“Don’t worry, nobody will expect you to raise them. The family will arrange everything,” Peter said as if that was meant to be an actual comfort. _Them_. Plural. She shook her head. “But it would have been such a waste to let you go.”

His other hand petted her stomach with a proprietary tenderness that should have made her angry, but she was too shocked, too horrified to feel anything but fear. 

“Of course I’ll keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. Maybe I’ll have you brought to Moorland House, you’d have your peace and quiet there.”

“I don’t want to be ‘brought’ anywhere, I don’t –” she tried in a last attempt at defiance, but she couldn’t stop staring at his slick fingers when he pulled them out of her, at the smear of come he left on her stomach as he wiped his hand on it.

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Evan never liked it there either. All the better, really. The lonelier you feel, the better for the child. Evan’s mother spent quite a bit of time travelling around while she was pregnant with him, maybe that’s why he didn’t turn out right.”

Again he petted her stomach, like he owned it, like he owned _her_. And in a way he did now, didn’t he? He’d taken what he wanted from her. And after tonight, she had no doubt that he’d make good on his threats, to take her away, to lock her up, anything to make sure she actually carried that child to term instead of running to the next pharmacy.

She felt his come leaking out of her, but she knew it was already too late. And even if she got lucky, even if it didn’t take, he’d probably be back to try again. She still didn’t understand – why he’d done this, and to her, and how Evan could possibly have been related to such a monster. No wonder he’d cut all contact with his family. Maybe he’d suspected, or known. She desperately hoped he hadn’t known in detail.

When she looked up again, Peter was standing by the bed, his cock tucked back in, and he looked as if nothing had happened. Not even his hair was dishevelled, while Naomi felt like a sweaty, sticky, used mess. Peter met her eyes for a moment as he sucked on his fingers, tasting her and himself, and looking so utterly delighted about it that she would have tried to kick him if her legs hadn’t felt like jelly.

“Well, I’ve really taken up enough of your time,” Peter said finally. “You did want to have a nice evening to yourself after all, and I came by uninvited.”

He untied her hands easily, and Naomi curled up around herself, rubbing her aching wrists and trying to cover her abused body. Not that it changed anything. It had been too late to escape him the moment he’d first shown up at her doorstep, with a bottle of wine and some wistful line about how sad it was that they’d never properly got to know each other while Evan was still alive. She wondered if he would have done this too if Evan had lived – if Peter had decided that they weren’t having children fast enough, or if he’d decided that Evan wasn’t “suitable”, whatever the hell that meant. She truly didn’t want to know the answer to those questions.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, still that same casual tone, and yet it sounded without a doubt like a threat. She wished she’d never have to see anyone again, not him, and not anyone else either, nobody who would ask questions about what had happened to her. Everyone in her life knew that her fiancé had died – how could she possibly explain getting pregnant just a few short months later? She wanted to be alone, curled up in the dark and away from the prying eyes that would wait for her as soon as she fell asleep, those eyes that would see what had happened to her and gorge themselves on her fear and her pain.

It was so cold in her bedroom, and empty, and desolate, and when she opened her eyes some time later, Peter was gone. She hadn’t heard him leave, hadn’t heard the door open and close. She didn’t hear anything at all – not the barking dog of the neighbours above or the old lady’s too loud TV in the flat next to hers. 

Nothing at all, as if she was all alone in this world, and for all that she’d wished for it just a moment ago, cold dread settled into her chest. She had a terrible feeling that she still wasn’t realising the full extent of what Peter Lukas had done to her.


End file.
